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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138319">солнце вместо лампы</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist'>zealotarchaeologist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Coital Cuddling, Really bad pillow talk, but very much about s3e5, set in the unspecified future like a month from season 3 lets say</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:48:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Villanelle thinks in circles around the idea of home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>солнце вместо лампы</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is way softer than i like my villanelle usually but i need to balance out the heartache im going through after that episode</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It never used to be like this for her.</p><p>Not that Villanelle has never exhausted herself in the act before—five girls and as many bottles of champagne can wear her out as much as the next person despite the pride she places in her physical stamina. Exhaustion, though, is a different thing from peace. Staying awake and busy for the requisite number of days before her body drops is a different thing from sleep which is a different thing entirely from feeling herself fall willingly into a warm tangle of blankets and limbs.</p><p>But now she has crawled her way into Eve’s bed successfully, beetle eating her way through a cherry. Though this should not be so much of a feat, really, the mattress is ancient and secondhand and all of it so ugly-colored. Eve’s presence is a distraction from it, she tells herself, but the truth is that Eve’s presence is a kind of brightening, a sharpening of the world, as it has been since Villanelle first saw her. The truth is that all these new wants in her life, for power, for home, these have only come about after Eve and she can divide her life quite easily like this, before- and after-Eve. In the year of Eve. The truth is that she did not really want things before, not like this, not in any kind of way that has ever lasted more than the second it took for her to sink her teeth in.</p><p>Sex has often been a nice indulgence, a passing pleasure that ranks above drugs but below good food and clothes. Sex with is Eve is different. It does not delight. It weighs on her. Makes her feel, for a moment, still. For a moment, quiet. And so she eats, sates herself, imagines blood red smeared across her mouth until they have both collapsed onto the creaking old mattress.</p><p>Eve sighs, satisfied, and lays there. Limbs extended. She is beautiful like this. Her eyes are pretending to be closed, but Villanelle knows better. She’s far too smart to let her guard down right now. Villanelle imagines the darkness under her eyelids. She wants to crawl beneath them. To be the thing Eve sees when she closes her eyes. Eve likes the darkness in her, is fascinated by it at least for now, and so as long as Villanelle can continue to carve a place for herself in that black empty space in the back of her mind Eve will never leave her. Not ever.</p><p>This is a thought too close to truth to be pleasant, and so Villanelle rolls away from her. Faces the wall of Eve’s shitty flat but does not really look at it. Fists her hands tight in the cheap blankets but does not really feel them.</p><p>Eve has a way of pulling the truth out of her, or whatever there is of truth that exists in her. This is not only the case in sex, but it is most achingly, keenly felt there. Sometimes she doesn’t know these things are true until Eve pulls them out of her, unknowingly, a choked-on confession of <em>I can’t stop thinking about you</em> delivered to no one and nothing.</p><p>That is why she says, too loud in the stillness of the room: “I did cry as a baby. I did.”</p><p>It doesn’t leave the same horrible taste in her mouth as the truth does. It isn’t ugly-colored. It isn’t heavy. It hangs weightless in the air above them, suspended in the unpleasant damp of London air, and waits to fall on her. Eve had left the window open. She could be in her house right now, in the sun and the color and the richness of it all, and instead she is here. She could be anywhere in the world. She could be quieting herself, tiring herself out in some other way.</p><p>Instead she is here, waiting to hear what Eve will say.</p><p>A heavy sigh. A long moment, then—“Yeah, I bet you did.” A smug and graceless laugh. Eve sounds unhappy, yet so very pleased. “I bet you were really loud. And really annoying.”</p><p>And when Eve says it like that it seems like it is true, and this is something she can work with and so she turns back over, drops her head ungently to rest between Eve’s chest and shoulder, right where the bullet went in. Where she knows it will hurt and her untrue smile becomes real at the little wince of pain, the annoyed sound it elicits. “That is unfair, Eve.” She sing-songs, nuzzles back into the wound. Into the space she has carved for herself. “I was a beautiful baby. Everyone said so.”</p><p>Eve snorts. “They probably said that to make you shut up.” But she curls her arm up around Villanelle’s back and over, to drift over her stomach. Her fingers moving lazily, up and down, making her shiver and warm again not because the touch feels nice but because she knows what Eve is looking for. She grabs Eve’s wrist, quick and hard, and helps her. Drags her curling fingers to the raised lump of scar tissue and lets her trace and twist and pinch at it. And that is better. They are not playing house, they are doing something much better.</p><p>It doesn’t hurt at this point, of course. But it has that strange, unpleasant non-feeling that scars do. Like some piece of something else lodged in her body. Like Eve shoved a seed into her, not a knife, a hard sour cherry pit and it’s that taste that makes her think, unwarranted, of childhood. Of home. In a place like this, so far from the passing wants of the time before-Eve, it threatens to bloom.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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